


the zeppo

by hemingyay



Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Deaf Clint Barton, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Red Room (Marvel), Slow Burn, Tony Stark Has A Heart, matt fraction!hawkeye, never ask clint barton to do anything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-21 23:47:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8264882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hemingyay/pseuds/hemingyay
Summary: Sidelined and uprooted from Wakanda, Cap's offshoot Avengers set off to tackle the world's biggest threats - with the exception of Clint Barton. He's been chucked a box of tranquilisers and ordered to look after a newly defrosted Bucky Barnes. Clint develops a growing list of things he'll never tell Steve Rogers: like how he broke into the Red Room and started lusting after the man's unstable best friend.





	1. that still small voice

**Author's Note:**

> Is this ship dead? I hope it's not dead. 
> 
> Took some minor liberties with Clint Barton - he's a confusing mish mash of Matt Fraction's incredible Hawkeye and the movie version. Just assume he's got Matt Fraction's backstory (i.e. Bedstuy shenanigans, hopeless bachelor, doesn't matter if you haven't read it really), but the events of the movie happened to him as well. I also forgot Tony smashed Bucky's arm to shit at the end of Civil War so I've flagged that here for all the nitpickers.
> 
> If you have any questions about the fic, want to follow updates/rants about storytelling or just wanna come hang, say hi at my tumblr (heming-yay.tumblr.com).

Okay, this looked bad.

Clint ran under the shadow of darkness in the Wakandan jungle, dragging a semi-comatose super soldier through the undergrowth. Overhead, an Iron Sentry twisted like a missile and scanned the jungle for signs of life. Clint knew on some level that if Tony Stark had really been out to get them, the Iron Sentry would have clocked them in a second. However, he wasn’t about to test the limits of Tony’s generosity. The asshole had thrown him in the Raft, after all.

“Barnes, come on. Work with me here,” Clint groaned, worried he’d yank the man’s metal arm off if he pulled any harder. That would be gross.

“Gngh,” Bucky said eloquently.

“Shit, why’d they make you super soldiers so big? I could deal with a Wanda-sized super soldier,” Clint muttered.

“Kuh,” Bucky responded.

Clint knew the guy had just come out of cryo, but he could at least speak up a bit. The jungle was hell on his hearing aids. Hell, he realised suddenly, he didn’t think he’d even had a conversation longer than five seconds with Barnes before. And now here he was, dragging his ungrateful ass to safety.

It had all started when Captain America asked him for a favour a few hours ago, tears shining in his patriotic, bright blue eyes. They’d been hiding in Wakanda by the grace of its ruler after the Avengers had self-destructed. Even though Clint had only been around for the second act – he had been retired, damn it - he’d been suckered into joining the ragtag gang. A girl who was a human firework, a guy who played with ants, a guy who dressed up as a falcon, a guy who dressed (used to dress?) as a flag and a king who dressed up as a cat. They were all insane, but this was coming from a guy who called himself Hawkeye.

“The UN have requested to send a search party into Wakanda. They’re looking for us,” Steve said, arms folded over his chest.

That wasn’t a surprise. If anything, Clint was surprised they hadn’t come for Wakanda sooner. T’Challa prowled the room.

Clint pulled a face. “Let me guess, they want to send Stark and his posse in?”

“It seems that is the case,” T’Challa told him. “While I am still on good terms with Mr. Stark and the UN, as the new ruler of Wakanda, I am not ready to rock the ship quite yet.”

Did you correct a king when they got an idiom wrong, Clint wondered? English _was_ the man’s second language. Clint hadn’t even bothered to learn Xhosa and they’d been in Africa for nearly a month. Ah, Clint decided, fuck it. Not the right time.

T’Challa had already moved on. “I need to allow them to conduct their search as a sign of good faith. Naturally, this means that you cannot be here when they arrive, or it places Wakanda in a precarious position for harbouring fugitives.”

“We’ve encroached on your kindness for too long, your highness. We’re very grateful,” Steve said, because Steve was a boy scout.

“It is of no consequence,” T’Challa said with an air that Clint envied.

Steve Rogers inclined his head, jaw set. He’d been less shiny than usual after returning from Siberia and had only started putting himself back together. Clint wasn’t sure what Tony Stark had done to him, but he’d definitely done a number. And speaking of the megalomaniac, Tony was pointedly avoiding any mention of Steve in press conferences. Hell, even Clint had been name dropped and he wasn’t even small fry - he was fish bait.

“So, what’s the plan then? We skedaddle onto another hidey hole with all our lost boys and girls?” Clint asked.

“It looks like it. We’ve already lined up a new base, so once we’ve packed everything up we’ll be leaving straight away,” Steve told him.

T’Challa watched Clint with an intensity that put him on edge. It made Clint uncomfortable. He knew how to deal with fighters - you hit them as hard as you could. The same didn’t follow for politicians unfortunately.

“I feel like there’s a but coming,” Clint said, frowning.

Steve passed a hand through his sandy hair. “They’ve made it very clear that their priority is finding both me and Bucky, so we’re safer split up. I’ll be going ahead to the base with Sam, Wanda and everyone, but Bucky’s not ready yet. He needs to be off the grid somewhere nobody will find him, with someone he can trust.”

Clint felt sick to his stomach. “Oh. Fuck.”

T’Challa cut in, “We have agreed you are the best man for the job, Clint Barton. You are not as high profile as your fellow Avengers-”

“Excuse you-”

“-and it is my understanding that you have a great knack for disappearing. I have heard wonderful things about a ranch that Captain Rogers once visited,” T’Challa said.

Clint threw an irritated look Steve’s way. He’d have to write the ranch off as a viable safe house now. Steve was too exhausted to even pretend to be guilty.

“I know I’m asking a lot, Clint, but I wouldn’t be asking if I hadn’t considered all our options. You’re the only one with the experience to keep Bucky safe and to hold your own against him if he starts acting up out of cryo.”

Alarms went off in Clint’s head. “Wait, _out_ of cryo? We’re letting him out again? You know that’s a terrible idea, right?”

“He’s not getting any better in there,” Steve argued.

“The cryo storage unit requires a lot of power, which is certain to attract attention and is impossible to retain if you are on the run. While I agree that letting James Barnes back into the world against his own wishes is not ideal, it is your best chance at keeping a low profile and moving quickly,” T’Challa told him.

“You can still say no. I don’t want to force you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. I can go with Bucky and you can go with everyone else – Sam will take over leading the team in my absence until it’s safe for us to meet up with you, if you’d prefer,” Steve said.

Looking into Steve’s watery blue eyes, the dark circles that dominated his face and the defeated slump of his shoulders, Clint knew he really didn’t have a choice in the matter. Sam was a great soldier, there was no doubt about that, but he wasn’t ready to lead a team yet. Especially one with baby superheroes like Wanda Maximoff and Scott Lang onboard, who were still testing their powers.

Under his breath, Clint mumbled, "Aw conscience, no."

Steve waited.

“ _If_ I do this,” Clint said, clinging to the pretence that he still had an option, that he wasn’t a sucker for Steve Rogers and his shiny muscles, “I need to know that I can do everything possible to protect myself if things go south. I love you Cap, but I know shit all about your friend other than the fact that he could snap at any second. If he attacks me and I can’t restrain him, I won’t hold back.”

“I have prepared some things for you that may be of help, should a situation arise,” T’Challa reassured him.

He’d known the whole time Clint would say yes. God. Politicians.

Clint scowled. “Sure, but that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying-”

“I know what you’re saying, Clint,” Steve interrupted him, passing a hand over his face. “And that's why I'm asking you to do this. You'll do the thing I can't do.”

And shit, even though Clint knew he would follow this bright shiny icon to the edge of the earth and over it, he forgot sometimes that Steve was just a kid in his twenties looking out for his best friend. Steve’s small admission had cracked him in two and Clint knew he was seconds away from watching an all-American idol crumble under the pressure.

He really didn’t want to be the guy that made Captain America cry. He also had the feeling he was addicted to the man’s idealism, this dumb belief people could be better. Something something, red in his ledger. Something something, brainwashing.

“Fine,” Clint told him. “Give me your popsicle assassin.”

~~~

Tony and the UN were due to arrive tomorrow, but Steve and T’Challa were operating on the premise that they’d be arriving in a few hours. Flying out of Wakanda would be too suspicious – by now, Ross and his lackeys would have their eyes on every plane coming in and out of the country – so T’Challa had organised for two nondescript boats to take them to neighbouring islands.

Their cold makeshift lounge was a far cry from the leather couches and espresso machines of Stark’s pad, but its whitewashed walls made for a fitting waiting room. T’Challa sat in the corner and Clint could smell the tension rolling off of him. They all had jitters and Barnes hadn’t even shown up yet.

“Man, you sure you’re down for this? You’re going to be hanging out with that dude twenty four seven. He could kill you in your sleep _while_ he’s asleep. How messed up is that?” Scott asked from his spot on the couch.

Clint threw a ball of paper at him. It smacked Scott right in the centre of his forehead. “Thanks for giving me another thing to worry about.”

“When we placed him in cryo, James was perfectly lucid,” T’Challa informed them from his perch in the corner. “I did not note any homicidal tendencies at the time.”

“Oh, gee, great.”

T’Challa ignored Clint, his mind already elsewhere. Wanda put her things away and sat down heavily next to Clint, eyeing her chipped nails with an unreadable expression. He sighed internally, knowing this was going to be the hard one. He loved the baby Maximoff - this goodbye was going to be a bitch.

“You will come back to us, yes?” she asked him, avoiding his gaze.

“As soon as Cap tells me I can, you can bet your sweet ass I’ll be on the first plane to wherever you guys are,” Clint told her.

She nodded and swallowed. “I never had many friends, only Pietro. I would not like to lose another one.”

“Have a little faith, Maximoff. Even if I’m probably not as strong as Barnes, I’m sure I can at least outrun him,” Clint told her.

Scott guffawed. “Outrun a super soldier? You can’t even keep up with Sam.”

“Can you not be yourself for ten seconds? I’m trying to have a moment with my favourite here,” Clint snapped.

Scott grinned at him and threw a callous middle finger his way. Clint quietly put a hand over Wanda’s and she gripped it. Scott glanced over, but pointedly didn’t give him any shit for it.

A loud ping went off and everyone in the room jumped, including the unfazeable king sitting in the corner. T’Challa produced a sleek black phone and pressed it to his ear, walking away from the group for a moment as he lapsed into urgent Xhosa.

On cue, Steve and Sam stumbled through the door with a super soldier hanging off their arms like laundry. Clint’s stomach leapt to his throat at the sight of James Buchanan Barnes, his dark hair wet and plastered to his face. The man’s icy blue eyes leapt around the room, not focusing on anything.

“What’s up, your highness?” Scott asked, sitting up now.

T’Challa smashed the end call button with his thumb, pointing at their bags. “Stark is sending ahead his Iron Sentry to do preliminary surveillance. If you leave, you must leave now.” 

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, then recollected himself. “Right. Everyone get your things, we’re heading to the boats.”

Wanda pressed a kiss to the side of Clint’s face fiercely. It was all moving so fast, Clint didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye before they were all being herded out and into the thrush of the Wakandan jungle. The humidity hit Clint like a slap in the face, the sweet smell of rain overwhelming his nostrils.

“Jesus, you weigh a car,” Clint said, steadying himself as he shouldered Bucky’s weight.

Bucky’s eyes lolled over to his, which was terrifying as all hell. He was completely out of it. Clint hoped to hell that he’d be able to manage more than a painful little shuffle when they were staging their great escape. Steve exchanged a look with Clint, sharing his thoughts.

“Buck, I’m going to have to leave you. You have to go with Clint, he’ll look after you until it’s safe for you to join us. Do you understand?” Steve asked him.

Bucky stared blankly at Steve. Fucking Christ. The man was a zombie.

Out of the foliage, one of T’Challa’s underlings appeared – a woman who looked like she had walked out of mahogany. She hissed through her teeth, a short, sharp warning for them to hurry up and barked something in Xhosa. Shit, Clint _really_ should have made more of an effort to learn it.

Bucky staggered and Clint grit his teeth, planting his feet firmly in the mushy ground to support his weight. Right, focus on the popsicle assassin.

Bucky nodded finally. T’Challa gripped Steve’s arm and told him, “I will take it from here. You must follow the rest.”

Overhead, Clint spotted the telltale beams of the Iron Sentries through the jungle canopy. T’Challa took Steve’s place at Bucky’s side and shoved Captain America in the direction Wanda and the others had slipped towards.

“Bucky,” Steve said, but couldn’t continue.

And Clint remembered being in his twenties in a mission in Budapest, Nat fighting tooth and nail to get to him. Clint promised, “I’ve got him.”

Steve hesitated. “He’s all I-”

Clint didn’t catch the rest of Steve’s sentence. There was a low boom up above as an Iron Sentry boomed into a new velocity, drowning out his voice, and he missed the movement of his lips in the gloom. Steve pressed Bucky’s hand hard in his own, but Bucky didn’t even register it. With a small nod to Clint, Steve turned and ran into jungle with the others. Only Wanda looked back, then the darkness swallowed them.

“What did Cap just say?” Clint asked T’Challa.

T’Challa inclined his head. “It was beautiful and sad. It would tarnish his words to repeat them.”

"Yeah, but not repeating them doesn't help the deaf guy," Clint muttered under his breath.

A white ray of light pierced the canopy ceiling and T’Challa body checked them into the shade of a tree. Clint looked up and spotted the silver glint of the Iron Sentry spiralling along as its scanners combed the jungle. He pressed his face against Bucky’s cold metal arm, feeling the gentle clicks of its inner workings as it shifted to accommodate him.

T’Challa passed a hand over his inner wrist and a soft mint light hummed to life on one tree, then one after that, then one after that in a long chain. He waved in their direction. “These lights will guide you to your boat. I will draw the sentries away as best I can. You must be vigilant. Do not get caught. I will not be able to assist much once you are in front of the UN, not at the expense of my own country.”

T’Challa let go of Bucky and Clint gritted his teeth as two hundred pounds of superhuman sagged against him like a building. Clint grumbled, “You gonna give Steve the same weepy goodbye?”

T’Challa pulled his mask over his face and said something. Maybe it was a goodbye, or a fuck you - Clint couldn’t hear him through the leather. Then he disappeared into the undergrowth.

God, Clint hoped whatever he said wasn’t important.

Barnes’ arm fell from T’Challa’s shoulder and he supported himself on the heavy trunk of the tree. In a voice hoarse from disuse, Barnes managed in Russian, " _Walk now_.”

His words were slow and strained, as though he were relearning all his vowels and consonants. Clint pretended not to be alarmed by the language slipping from the man’s lips.

“Well, thank god for that. Come on sleeping beauty, our carriage awaits,” Clint said.

Bucky let Clint keep his metal arm slung round his shoulder, as though he didn’t trust his own feet yet. Overhead, the Iron Sentry stopped and righted itself in a pose painfully similar to Iron Man’s, right down to the small cock of its head. It spun like a corkscrew and floated after T’Challa, who was off Tarzan-ing through the trees.

Then Bucky’s foot caught on a root, cracking like a whip in the silence. It did a complete 180 and zoomed right back at them. 

So okay, this looked bad.

“Barnes, come on. Work with me here,” Clint groaned, worried that he’d yank the man’s metal arm off if he pulled any harder. That would be gross.

“Gngh,” Bucky said eloquently, even Russian too far a stretch for him now.

“Shit, why’d they make you super soldiers so big? I could deal with a Wanda-sized super soldier,” Clint muttered.

“Kuh,” Bucky responded.

God damn super soldiers and their god damn shiny blue eyes and their god damn rippling muscles. Clint hated all two of them.

"Please say you have fancy missiles in that arm of yours," Clint ventured.

Bucky fixed him with a stare. So that was a no then. 

Clint’s mind strained to remember what he had in his quiver - with all the time that they'd had in Wakanda, he'd finally gotten round to labelling all his trick arrows. If he dumped Bucky for a second, he'd be able to grab one that could possibly help. There was the acid one, the net one-

Overhead the Iron Sentry let out another silver beam of light, which combed over the trees. It passed over the edge of Clint's foot. The Iron Sentry stopped in its tracks, fixating on them.

\- THE ACID ONE, THE NET ONE, THE BOOMERANG ONE -

"Holy shit, we gotta go," Clint blurted, yanking Bucky as hard as he could.

The man stumbled and then finally lumbered forwards in a heavy run. As he did so, Clint swung his quiver over his shoulder and rifled through it blindly. The Iron Sentry slammed through the treetops above them. 

Bucky was saying something now, but Clint could hardly hear him over the crunch and whistle of the Iron Sentry behind them, "...me behind."

"I don't know what the futz you're saying, but you better hurry up or I will ditch you. Super soldier my ass," Clint said irritably.

His hand locked around the arrow he was looking for and the heavy button on it. The Iron Sentry was overhead now and Bucky threw his head up wildly, wide blue eyes taking in the shine of it as Clint shut his own. He pressed the button on the arrow. 

An EMP shockwave blasted through the area and the Iron Sentry dropped like a rock behind them. It was kind of comical and Clint half-wished Tony had been there to see him waste his fancy tech.

Bucky let out a small hiss of pain as his arm suddenly stopped whirring and clicking. He shoved Clint away from him roughly and he staggered away, looking as though he’d been struck by a baseball bat. 

"The hell? I just saved your life!" Clint snapped at Bucky.

"What'd you do to my fucking arm?" Bucky demanded in English now, words slurring. 

"Your arm?" Clint asked, bemused. Then he realised. "Oh. Right. EMP arrow."

He held up the offending arrow sheepishly and Bucky gritted his teeth, holding onto his metal limb. It hung like a dead thing at his side, fingers and joints swinging uselessly. Huh, well, at least Clint now knew how to put the guy in his place if he was getting fresh.

"It'll come back online in twenty minutes?" Clint said somewhat apologetically. "And so will Tony's hunk of junk over there too, so let’s get moving." 

Clint went to sling Bucky's arm over his shoulder to help him walk again, but Bucky shoved him away sharply and stalked heavily towards the last lit up tree. Clint threw his hands up non-threateningly and trailed after him, leaving the dead Iron Sentry to rot.

Now that Bucky was fully lucid, Clint was regretting his decision to take on Steve's mammoth task. Sure, Bucky had just woken up from cryo against his will, been separated from his best friend and Clint had kind of accidentally knocked out his metal arm with an EMP. But only one of those things was Clint's fault. It wouldn't kill the guy to be a little nicer to him.

As Bucky approached the final tree, he disappeared into the ground. 

Clint stared at the spot where Bucky had magically evaporated. A tree had swallowed Captain America's best friend. Steve going to eat Clint raw.

He scrambled over the roots to where Bucky had fallen and found a small, glowing tunnel that led underground. He lowered himself into it, carefully, and slid down. The air was warmer, wetter, and intensified the further down he went. It led into a large underground cavern and he picked out Bucky's shady figure a little ways off, next to a bubbling underground river. And more importantly, next to a little fishing boat. 

"Aw man, he could've at least splashed out on a yacht or something. Some king," Clint complained as he approached Bucky.

"Less conspicuous this way," Bucky pointed out, frowning at the rickety boat. It creaked forebodingly.

"Yeah, I guess. But I've never been on a yacht," Clint said wistfully.

Bucky turned to him, all dark hair and ice blue eyes. Wow, he was as jacked as Steve. "You know how to sail one of these things?"

Clint replied, "Not well. I was gonna call shotgun."

Bucky frowned in confusion, but chose not to comment and stepped onto the boat. His lifeless metal arm swung limply at his side, brushing against the railing with a small clink. Clint wondered if he could feel anything with it. Bucky swept into the navigation room and Clint followed after a few minutes.

"T'Challa's already programmed the coordinates into some autocruise programme. He's set a course for Alassar," Bucky informed Clint as he walked in.

It was no surprise that despite the boat's shabby chic exterior, the captain's cabin was souped up with the best Wakandan tech had to offer. Mint holographic displays covered every inch of the glass window, showcasing everything from a map of the area to an up to date weather report.

Clint adjusted his hearing aids, they'd become sticky and clammy in the humidity. "Never heard of it. So, do we just hit the start button and go then?"

Bucky stuck his hand into the middle of the hologram map and everything swirled around it. He tapped Alassar and the boat suddenly lurched into motion, throwing the two of them. Then the wet darkness of the underground river gave way to a rush of brisk sea air, the dotted lights of the night sky’s constellations.

Bucky took a loud, deep breath and stared out across the water. Clint glanced at him, trying to remember when he last would have seen the sky.

~~~

There was a loud crackle and pop, then T'Challa's name flashed across the mint interface with a small phone icon beside it. Bucky experimentally tapped it.

T'Challa's mellow bass filled the cabin. “Clint Barton? Are you there?”

Bucky glanced at Clint, who shrugged and said, “I’m here. We found our ride.”

“And you are safe?” he asked.

“All in one piece. Well, uh, kind of. Sorry?” Clint asked Bucky, trying pointedly not to stare at his cyborg arm.

Bucky didn’t respond. Yeah, Clint was definitely not sleeping tonight.

“The boat will drive itself to your destination. You will dock near a private airport and be able to take a private plane from there,” T’Challa said, and as he spoke a holographic map appeared on the surface of the cabin glass.

Clint reached out and prodded it experimentally. “A self-driving stealth boat? Stark really should’ve jumped on the tech for that.”

He harrumped on the other end of the line. “Stark Industries does not have the subtlety for stealth technology.”

The quinjet immediately came to mind, but Clint didn’t want to aggravate the man saving their lives. 

"Have you heard from Steve and the others?" Bucky asked, rubbing his head.

"I will contact you again when I know of their status," T'Challa said. "In the meantime, there are some things for you and Clint Barton below deck that may be of assistance."

Clint perked up at that. "Presents? I love presents." 

"They are tools," T'Challa stated.

"I also just wanted to let you know that there may or may not have been an incident with an EMP. So just be prepared for a downed Iron Sentry if Tony asks," Clint informed him.

T'Challa let out a heavy sigh. "That is a pain in my back. At least tell me that you have not left behind any incriminating evidence."

"Aside from a metal robot in the jungle? Nope," Clint said.

"Wonderful," T'Challa said darkly.

“Thanks, your highness. You've done so much for me, when you didn't have to," Bucky added quietly.

T'Challa paused. “I truly wish I could have done more for you, James. May your health return soon, my friend.”

Clint didn’t know how to end the conversation. He settled for an awkward, “Yeah, you too.”

There was a long, confused silence. Then, T'Challa said, “Goodbye, Clint Barton."

T'Challa promptly hung up.

“Your mouth always shoot off faster than your brain does?" Bucky asked.

Now that Bucky was speaking more, Clint could pick up on the faint Brooklyn twang in his accent. He was struck with a sudden inexplicable surge of homesickness for New York, for Bed-Stuy and his shitty tenement building. For Kate, Lucky and even his piece of shit DVR. He shook himself out of it - with the UN and Stark hanging over his shoulder, it wasn't even worth thinking about.

"I've been told it's charming. How's your arm doing?" Clint asked, putting thoughts of New York to bed.

Bucky picked up his limp wrist with his human hand, watching the fingers flop around. It was pretty disgusting. "Still dead."

"Can you turn it off and on again?" 

"It's not a computer. It's my arm," Bucky stated.

"Terminator arm. That's gotta count for something, right?" Clint asked.

"Don't get that reference, but I think I'd be mad if I did," Bucky said, frowning.

 “Oh, you 1940s super soldiers. So much to learn in so little time,” Clint said, thinking back to Steve and his never ending notebook of things to google.

Even though it totally freaked him out, Clint was weirdly fascinated by the metal limb. It was only when Bucky shifted that Clint realised he'd been staring and whipped his gaze up to the man's haggard and drawn face. Damn, for a man who'd spent the last few weeks comatose in an ice chamber, he looked like he'd hardly slept.

"Sorry about the EMP. I really didn't think the arrow would kill it," Clint admitted in a mumble, rubbing the back of his head.

Bucky nodded, his gaze becoming unreadable. "Yeah I figured, Hawkeye." 

"Yeah, well," Clint said. "Call me Clint. Nobody calls me that unless we're out on a mission."

Bucky snorted. "Isn’t this a mission?"

Clint waved a hand dismissively. "Don't big yourself up, pal. You're just a part time babysitting gig."  

Bucky let out a startled smile and the expression was tentative, as though he weren't sure if he could. It was only fleeting and the two of them were left standing around in uncomfortable silence, not sure where the conversation could go from there.

"...wanna check out what cool shit T'Challa gave us?" Clint ventured.

"Yeah, let's do that."

 ~~~

On the first day on the run, T’Challa gave to Bucky:

\-       One lifelike cybernetic arm

\-       Two sets of civilian clothes

\-       Three vibranium knives

and Clint Barton got a 90s flip phone from Steve.

“He could’ve splashed out a little at least,” Clint grumbled. "First the shitty ship from T'Challa, now this."

He clicked through the contacts and there were two numbers: Steve's and T'Challa's. Clint rolled his eyes, Captain America could be so overdramatic. He immediately began typing in Natasha's number, the one they only ever reserved for each other and saved it to the contact list.

Bucky picked up his new arm and Clint winced as it drooled lifelessly against the table. T’Challa had departed from Bucky’s standard robochic look and created something that alternated between steel metal and lifelike skin to help them blend in. All Bucky had to do was fold the fingers back in a certain sequence to activate grafts matched perfectly to Barnes’ milky white complexion and trimmed pink fingernails. Clint supposed it would help them keep a lower profile. Barnes had been on every major news cycle for a week, so anything to keep him out of the limelight helped.

Bucky looked up at Clint. “You're gonna help me attach this.”

It took a second for him to realise Bucky meant his arm. Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Okay,” Clint said, because he had a death wish.

Fifteen minutes later, Bucky had peeled off his black shirt and was sitting at the table. The spare arm was laid out like a place setting and Clint didn’t know where to look: the disembodied limb or the thick, furious scar roping over the assassin’s shoulder, down over his left pectoral, spiralling over a shoulder blade. He settled for the arm.

Barnes’ artificial limb was built up of two parts – the limb and a connecting port built into what remained of his shoulder. Bucky had spent the last ten minutes explaining how Clint would help him install it in a low, calm voice and Clint had spent most of it nodding and trying not to freak out.

“So you press that button there, then I press this button here and I twist it off like a bottle cap?” Clint asked, on the verge of hyperventilating.

“Yes,” Bucky told him, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice.

“And then I just shove the new one in?” Clint asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Okay,” Clint said, reassuring himself.

Bucky’s jaw set and he raised a hand to a nearly imperceptible button on his bicep. “I’m going to start.”

Clint hesitated, then moved into Bucky’s personal bubble and placed a hand over the bright red star at the base of the shoulder port. The metal burned like ice. His fingers found the tiny button.

Totally unprepared for what was about to happen, Clint told Bucky, “Go for it.”

Bucky inhaled and depressed the button. There was a hiss and a click as the metal gave way within his arm and Clint watched him grit his teeth so hard, he swore he could hear them crack. It was only when Bucky threw a dark look in his direction that Clint remembered to press his own button. The arm twisted a millimeter and popped out a fraction, ready to be pulled out.

“Bottle cap,” Clint repeated wildly.

“Shut the fuck up and just do it,” Bucky snarled.

“Right,” Clint said, and yanked his metal arm out of the port.

Bucky grunted as it came out like a plug from a socket, eyes squeezing shut as his nerve endings screamed out then went totally numb. Clint was left with a detached metal arm now and eyed it with a small mixture of horror, despair and intrigue.

Once Bucky had recovered, Clint asked, “You good?”

Bucky hated not having the arm on, almost as much as he hated having it. He muttered, “I've just had my damn arm ripped out, what do you think?"

Clint pointed at his purple hearing aids. "Sorry buddy, you're mumbling. Gotta speak up." 

Bucky cleared his throat and said, "I just need a minute."

“Sure. Um. Just let me know when you’re ready,” Clint said, gesturing with Bucky’s limp arm. Bucky didn’t think the archer even realised he was doing it.

Bucky rose to his feet and walked into the open kitchen, yanking some kitchen towel from the roll. He began to wipe down the port meticulously and tossed the tissue dispassionately into the bin. It was an oddly domestic moment and Clint wondered how many times Bucky had let anyone see him like this. Vulnerable as Barnes seemed, Clint wasn’t naïve enough to believe that Bucky couldn’t still murder him one handed.

Bucky returned to his seat and nodded at T’Challa’s present. Clint picked it up, disoriented by how much like flesh it felt like. 

In a moment of nervous hysteria, he jiggled Bucky’s spare arm and the palm flopped back and forth. “Blurugah.”

Bucky snatched it out of his hand. “Stop screwing around.”

“Okay, okay - I'm sorry. I'll be serious, this is serious,” Clint said.

Bucky eyed him doubtfully, then forked over the limb. Clint took it, resisting the urge to high five it, and glanced over at the space in Bucky’s shoulder port, trying to figure out how they fit together.

“You just need to line it up and twist it to the right. It'll lock in automatically,” Bucky told him.

“Will it hurt as much as it did when I took it off?” Clint asked.

Bucky hesitated. “More. No adrenalin rush this time.”

Clint nodded thoughtfully. He moved in closer to Bucky, standing nearly between the man’s legs and bent down to position the fake arm over the bare port. Bucky flinched suddenly as Clint put a hand on his human shoulder to brace himself, overwhelmed by the proximity and contact. Clint let go quickly, as though he'd burned him.

“Try again,” Bucky said, forcing himself to calm down. He could do this.

Clint laid his hands on him again. The callouses on the archer’s fingers were like braille and Bucky told himself to relax into the touch, taking deep breaths. He couldn’t watch Clint slide T’Challa’s arm in, knowing the pain would be worse if he could anticipate it, so he raked his eyes over the tightrope of Clint’s slightly crooked nose, the dust of freckles across his cheekbones, his purple BTEs. The archer’s easygoing demeanour had evaporated, replaced with the precise stillness of a-

His muscles went into overdrive and then Bucky was falling from the train, arm gored on the side of a cliff as he slam, slam, ripped down the rock face. His arm, _god_ , his arm.

When Bucky finally floated back into his own body, his heart was racing. Clint’s hand anchored him and Bucky focused on the thrum of blood in the other man’s fingertips, the life rushing round his body like a typhoon. Belatedly, Bucky realised he had knocked his forehead against the planes of Clint’s stomach when he’d presumably doubled over in agony. He lifted his head and swallowed, embarrassed by the intimacy.

Instead of catching Clint’s eyes, he looked blearily at his new limb. It was practically indistinguishable from his human one and he wiggled his fingers experimentally. Every digit responded, faster and lighter than before. He could even feel the heat from Clint’s palm at the end of his shoulder port now, the nervous tap of his fingertips.

“Look, Barnes,” Clint told him. “You’re a real boy.”

Bucky got the reference. With the aftershocks coursing through him like fireworks, Clint’s heavy hand on his shoulder and something wild chasing the curve of his mouth round and round - he finally laughed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint forgets the way to the safe house and a special guest freaks Bucky out. Also: Clint is terrible at flirting.

As the night went on and dawn began to spill across the horizon, neither Clint nor Bucky had rested. Bucky had spent too long comatose to feel comfortable shutting his eyes again, whereas Clint was too wired from the whole arm debacle to sleep.

Clint had settled for spinning around in the wooden captain's chair and complaining aloud. “I used to fly the quinjet, you know. I even flew the helicarrier once. And they give us a fucking fishing boat.”

Bucky didn’t acknowledge that with a response. The night’s events rattled round in his skull and he stalked out of the captain’s cabin, settling himself at the prow. He stayed there, motionless, staring over the black ocean. Clint frowned at him and wondered if he should begin counting down the hours till Barnes put his metal arm through his chest.

Clint rubbed his eyes and slapped his face in an attempt to stay awake. They’d been sailing for a few hours now and he’d spent most of it bored or waiting for Barnes to snap.

The screen sputtered to life and T'Challa's face appeared. Clint swiped his fingers across it and T’Challa’s dulcet tones filled the small cabin. “Clint Barton?”

“Miss us much, your highness?” Clint asked.

T’Challa hummed into the phone dismissively. “I am a genius and a king, Clint Barton. Friends are a dime a twelve. Did you find the things that were left for you?" T'Challa asked, breezing past.

"I sure did. Why the hell'd you splash out on Barnes so much? The guy gets vibranium weapons, an arm and new threads and all I get a phone that hasn't seen the light of day since the 90s," Clint complained.

T'Challa sighed. "Look under the counter to your left, Clint Barton."

An invisible drawer popped open and Clint gaped at it. "That was cool."

"Yes. I did design it."

Inside lay a small metal box. It was filled with several syringes full of clear liquid. He picked one up experimentally.

"I gave up on heroin a while ago," Clint said.

T'Challa explained, "Those are tranquilisers capable of knocking out a super soldier. Steve wanted to ensure that you were able to protect yourself if something should happen."

Clint stared at the box of tranquilisers and swallowed, trying not to imagine scenarios in which he'd actually need to use them. He'd seen the Winter Soldier in action at the airport when they'd had their little rumble and in SHIELD's secret ledgers, watched him tear a car apart with his bare hands in a surveillance video. If something went wrong, Clint highly doubted he'd be able to do anything but run for his goddamn life.

"Ugh, this was such a bad idea. Dumb Steve and his dumb compassion," Clint muttered, shoving the medical goods into his bag.

“Speaking of which, the captain and the others have already arrived safely and are in the process of moving to their new base,” T’Challa said.

That was a weight off Clint’s shoulders. “Great. Any idea where this newfangled base is?”

“Europe.”

“Sure, that narrows it down.”

“Captain Rogers requested that I not share their specific location with you. In the event that you are taken in by the authorities-”

Clint sat down heavily in a swivel chair. “Yeah, yeah, I get it."

"They are asking after you and James," T'Challa said. There was a question in there somewhere, Clint swore it.

“Bucky’s quiet and I’m getting tired of the sound of my own voice. There’s only so many times I can re-enact Titanic by myself and this is prime Celine Dion ballad time.”

Clint’s eyes followed Barnes as he rose to his feet outside, his new arm moving fluidly. The man hadn’t said much since the installation, he had just lurked aggressively in the shadows.

“He will come around, I am sure of it. Be patient. Be kind,” T’Challa told him.

It was hard to believe that just a few months ago, T’Challa had been hellbent on putting Barnes six feet under. Clint didn’t know if his 180 was a sign of his contrariness or incredible kindness.

“Sure. Tell Steve we’re doing okay and to send us a postcard from wherever they’re not hiding,” Clint said.

“It is good to hear you are your usual irritating self, Clint Barton. I will check in with you when I can. If there are any issues, call and I will do what I can to aid you. I will leave you now,” T’Challa said.

“Thanks babe,” Clint said, before he’d really had the time to think about it.

T’Challa paused and Clint could hear the king’s confusion through the line.

"Do not call me that again," he said simply and hung up.

A voice behind him asked, “Did you just call the leader of a world superpower ‘babe’?”

Clint nearly shot straight through the ceiling. “Fucking hell!”

Barnes shifted in the doorway as Clint pressed a hand to his jackhammering heart.

“For a spy, you startle easily,” he said.

“For a man with a metal arm, you should make a hell of a lot more noise. Even Arnold Schwarzenegger was obnoxiously loud and he was all robot,” Clint said.

Bucky frowned. “Is this that Terminator thing again?”

“We’re getting you on IMDB. This is getting out of hand,” Clint said.

Bucky didn’t bother to grace that with a response, but he did move over to the window beside him and leaned against it. Clint glanced up at him, somewhat leery of the man’s huge presence. Try as he might to shrink in on himself, Barnes could swallow a room whole just by standing there in silence.

“So, what did T’Challa say?” Barnes asked after a spell.

“He was just checking in. Steve and the others are safe and en route to their base in not-Europe,” Clint told him.

Barnes smiled wryly, the expression twisting his face. “Europe, huh? Didn’t think he’d ever go back there after the war.”

“When you say war, you mean the one with the Nazis in it right?” Clint asked.

“Yes,” Barnes responded, as though it were obvious.

Clint rubbed his head. “That’s a trip.”

Bucky shrugged and looked out the window. Clint followed his stained glass gaze over the sharp prick of the bow, the ebony waves and unforgiving slash of the horizon.

Clint cleared his throat and ventured cautiously, “T’Challa was asking how you were. I didn’t know what to tell him, so I didn't really tell him anything.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, but Clint hadn’t expected him to. He drummed his fingers on his knee idly, itching for his arrows. He really wasn’t good at this touchy feely stuff and now that he’d been lumped in with a super soldier in dire need of therapy, he was feeling completely out of his element. Usually, Clint was the human trainwreck.

He waited a few more moments for Barnes to take the chance to open up. When he didn’t and slipped out onto the prow of the boat again, Clint wasn't really surprised.

Clint threw his head back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. He was so tired. He told the boat, “Let’s never do this again.”

The boat creaked in response. Maybe Clint would shut his eyes for a minute. Bucky was locked away in his room and didn't _seem_ like he'd murder Clint in his sleep. Maybe just for a minute.

An hour and a half later, someone was gently shaking Clint awake. He opened his eyes reluctantly, feeling a terrible crick in his neck from sleeping in the hard wooden chair. Half asleep, he didn’t even jump when he realised Bucky was the one who’d woken him.

“We’re almost there. We should talk about what we plan to do when we get off the ship,” Bucky said quietly.

Clint inhaled sharply, leaning forwards and rubbing his eyes. “Right. Safehouse. Plane. Hiding.”

He glanced at Bucky, then realised something was different about him. He looked cleaner somehow - younger.

“Did you cut your hair?” Clint asked incredulously.

Bucky resisted the urge to rake his fingers through it. “Yeah. Just now, with the knives from T’Challa.”

Clint reached out idly to touch the hacked up chestnut locks, then thought better of it. The man might bite his hand off. “You should’ve asked me. I’ll neaten it up for you when we get the time.”

Barnes pulled away from him. “Archery and hairdressing?”

Clint stood up, stretching with an obnoxious yawn. “I'm a man of many useless talents. Okay, so are you feeling somewhere cold and European or hot and Asian? We’ve got options.”

Bucky looked at him. “You want me to make the call?”

Clint shrugged. “Why not?”

A frown crossed Bucky’s face, as though he couldn't believe Clint was stupid enough for that. In all honesty, Clint was inclined to believe him.

“Steve’s in Europe, so we should try to keep our distance,” Bucky said, after a beat.

“Hot and Asian it is,” Clint muttered. “Let’s do...Hong Kong, if I remember correctly. Good old British colonialism and their network of paranoid spies, always leaving safehouses behind.”

“I’ve never been to China before,” Bucky said, his expression glazing over.

Clint glanced over at him. Now he was without his long greasy locks and had slipped into a fresh change of clothes, Bucky looked every inch the twenty something all the history textbooks displayed. How much of the world had he seen, Clint wondered? How much of the world did he remember?

“You’ll love it. You know that shitty deep fried Chinese takeway stuff you get in America? Nothing like legit Chinese food,” Clint said.

Bucky had never had Chinese food before, so he couldn’t really make a judgment.

“Also,” Clint began and then pointed at Bucky’s spare metal arm on the table, “what do you want to do with that? It's freaking me out."

Bucky looked at it. It had been a part of his life for so long that it was hard to believe it was just sitting there, totally decommissioned.

Bucky said, “We needa get rid of it.”

At that, Clint brightened up. “Sea funeral?”

Bucky picked up the arm and stared down at it, turning it this way and that. It was almost as though it belonged to someone else now. “Sea funeral.”

“Alright. Out we go,” Clint said, rushing out the door of the cabin.

Bucky followed in the man’s wake and walked to the railing, where Clint was waiting for him excitedly. The archer spread his arms out to the deep black sea grandly and began, “Oh, big wide sea, take our humble sacrifice. This cyborg arm-”

Bucky threw it over the side of the ship and it plopped into the water. It sank instantly and it only took a couple of seconds before it disappeared completely.

“Well, that was anti-climactic,” Clint complained.

“It was a piece of shit,” Bucky said. He’d spent a lot of nights scratching the blood out of its joints. When T'Challa had reconstructed it after Tony had obliterated it to pieces, Bucky had half-wished he'd left it alone.

Clint hummed in agreement. “It was scary as fuck. Plus that whole red star thing? Very USSR, so twenty years ago.”

"Seventy years, if we're really counting," Bucky said.

"Guh. Trip."

Bucky stretched out his new arm, reaching toward the horizon experimentally. The sunlight winked through his pale fingertips and it felt like a tiny beginning.

~~~

When they finally docked at Alassar, Clint grabbed his arrows, bag and all the complimentary bottles of water from the boat's hold. Bucky followed in his footsteps as Clint stole across the dimly lit airport runway, making a beeline for a solitary, small plane on the tarmac.

"Now this? This is more like it. Screw that fishing boat junk," Clint said, gesturing to the sleek black stealth craft T'Challa had reserved for them.

Bucky glanced up at it, taking in the glare of the mirrored windows. "This seems excessive."

"You think this is excessive? You should've seen some of Stark's stuff. If he'd designed this, it would've been red, gold and obnoxious all over," Clint said, snorting.

"Sounds like the apple didn't fall far from the tree," Bucky commented.

Clint side eyed him. "You knew Howard Stark?"

"He made sure everyone knew him, back in the day. He was smart as hell, but an asshole," Bucky said.

"Oh yeah, Tony's _really_ his father's son in that case," Clint snorted. Okay, so he was still a little bitter about Tony.

Bucky's face shuttered. "I don't know about that."

Clint knew that Steve and Bucky had bumped into Tony on their Siberian honeymoon, but Cap had shut down any talk about what happened there fast. Maybe more had gone on than he thought.

And maybe Clint didn't care enough to find out.

He threw his bags on the couch in the plane, quiver and bow included, and charted a course for the cockpit. For once, Bucky didn't follow. Clint sank into the snazzy leather pilot's seat and programmed in the flight coordinates for Hong Kong, groaning when he realised it was another ten hour journey. He was never going to get any fucking sleep.

He turned around to complain to Bucky, but then caught the man sitting on the cream couch in the next room. He was hunched over, looking down at his hands with a lost expression on his face.

Bringing up Tony had triggered something in Bucky and Clint couldn't stave off the pang of guilt for snapping at him. He was also really bad at apologising, so instead of doing the mature thing and talking to him, he decided to take out his hearing aids and let the roaring silence take over instead.

~~~

After a complicated take off and the first hour of the journey, the two of them hadn't said a single word to each other. Clint was officially bored out of his mind. He glanced over his shoulder at Bucky again and noticed that the man hadn't moved from the couch.

Clint put the plane on autopilot and rose to his feet, stretching. He padded past Bucky's tortured figure and began combing through the cupboards for anything edible - plus, anything that could be of use. After twenty minutes of searching (the plane wasn't that big), Clint found:

  * Three bottles of water
  * Four packets of biltong, a kind of South African beef jerky
  * A guava
  * A mango
  * Six spare toilet rolls
  * A complimentary jasmine scented shower kit
  * Three cans of vending machine coffee



"Oh sweet heavenly nectar," Clint murmured to one of the cans, caressing it.

It was guaranteed to be a disgusting sugary mess, but Clint could brave it for a hit of caffeine. He cracked it open and worked up the courage to sit next to Bucky on the couch, propping his back up against the armrest to face the former assassin. He held out a packet of biltong to bridge the awkwardness and Bucky moved, analysing the packet.

He eventually took it. He mumbled something and Clint struggled to lipread what he was saying, with his head tucked down and face at an angle from him. He held up a finger and put his hearing aids in, only slightly startled as the low hum of the plane suddenly burst into life.

"You were saying?" Clint asked.

"I said thanks," Bucky told him.

"Oh. Yeah, it's cool. Gotta keep you fed and watered," Clint said.

They fell lapsed into silence.

"So, uh, some weather we've been having, huh?" Clint asked.

Bucky let out a low huff and ripped open the biltong effortlessly. Clint did not watch his arms bulge as he did so. "That a line?"

Clint shrugged. "I don't have lines. I just wait until someone takes pity on me."

Bucky tossed a few scraps of biltong into his mouth. "How's that workin' out for you?"

"Alice Green let me touch her boob in middle school once, so I think I'm doing alright," he responded.

"Left or right?"

Clint grinned in surprise, taking a sip of his coffee. "The right one, obviously."

It was jarring to see glimpses of the Winter Soldier's dry sense of humour. In Clint's head, he had been doom, gloom and a psychiatrist's walking nightmare. Bucky idly clenched the fingers of his mechanical left arm repeatedly. Clint had a hard time distinguishing it from the man's real one, it looked so lifelike.

"How's the new arm?" Clint ventured.

Bucky glanced down at it and stopped gripping his fingers, as though he'd just realised he was doing it. "It's good. More responsive than the last one."

"Still adjusting though?" Clint asked.

"Yeah. It's lighter," Bucky said.

Clint took a sip of his coffee. "I for one miss the tacky red star. We should make finding a red sharpie our priority when we get into Hong Kong. Safehouse, schmafehouse."

"I thought you said the star was dated," Bucky said.

"I've reconsidered and decided that it would be very bold of you to commit to an ironic tattoo. You don't seem like the butterfly tramp stamp type," Clint told him.

"Tramp stamp?" Bucky asked.

Clint leaned forwards and lifted up the back of his shirt, pointing at his lower back. "It's a tattoo that goes right here. Very classy."

Clint leaned back to look at Bucky, then felt a twinge of interest when he noticed that Bucky's steel blue eyes were still fixated on his bare skin. When he let his shirt drop, Bucky's gaze immediately snapped quickly up to his.

"Uh," Bucky began.

"Yeah," Clint responded. 

They stared at each other.

"I'm gonna go back into the cockpit. Make sure everything's going okay," Clint said finally.

"Yeah," Bucky said, looking stonily at the floor.

Clint sank into the pilot's seat again and pulled up the flight route on the holoscreen. Bucky's presence burned behind him like a furnace.

~~~

When Clint finally landed the stealth plane in Hong Kong at an abandoned airport, he all but crawled out of the vehicle. He threw himself down the runway and sprawled spread eagled on the tarmac as Bucky padded along beside him into the midnight haze.

"Oh thank god, I couldn't be in there another hour," Clint moaned, relishing the smell of fresh air. After eleven hours in that tin can airplane, Clint was pretty sure he'd inhaled more of his own farts than he cared to think about.

Bucky shouldered Clint's forgotten pack and surveyed the deserted airport runway, scanning for life. He asked, "How long were we travelling for?"

"Including the boat yesterday? 30 hours at least," Clint said, rising to his feet. "All I want is a hot bath, some coffee and reruns of Dog Cops. Don't ask what it is, just know that you'll love it."

"What the hell is Dog Cops?" Bucky told him.

"Whatever you need Dog Cops to be, in your heart, they will be that for you," Clint said reverently.

"Are they- no, I'm ending this here. Where's the safehouse?" Bucky asked, if only to divert the conversation away from Dog Cops.

"Oh, we just need to break out of here, take a train and then hike a little bit. Should take three hours tops," Clint said, doing the calculations in his head.

They entered the gigantic pitch black airport and Clint rustled around in his bag, pulling out a flashlight. He turned it on and after three seconds, it promptly went dead.

"Aw, flashlight." He shook the torch, willing it back to life.

Bucky sighed and Clint almost shrieked when something touched his arm. He immediately slapped it away and Bucky let out a small grunt of pain.

"Why the hell did you smack me?" Bucky asked.

"Don't just grab me like that when we're in a dark deserted airport, on the run from almost every world government. Give a guy some warning," Clint snapped.

"Calm the fuck down, I'm just leading you out. My eyes are good in the dark," Bucky said, slowly and deliberately.

"Really? You got X-ray vision and laser eyes too?" Clint quipped, letting Bucky take his arm and lead him through the dark building.

"Don't be stupid," Bucky said.

"Oh boy, I can't wait till you meet Cyclops and the X-Men. Hey, I wonder if they signed the Accords."

Bucky's human hand was damp with the humidity and loose around Clint's bicep. Instinctively, Clint flexed his arm and Bucky's fingers tightened around the hard muscle. Okay, so maybe Clint was showing off a little, but having incredible guns was one of the very few perks of using a bow and arrow for a living.

Something occurred to Clint. "You're not just going to walk me into a wall, are you?"

"I was aiming for a trash can. We're almost out, but the exit's boarded up. Hold on a second."

Bucky let go of his arm. For the longest ten seconds of his life, he heard the quiet shuffle of feet and then a spill of light as Bucky wrenched a board off a window, revealing the world outside. Bucky climbed through and took Clint by the wrist to support him as he clambered out.

He opened his mouth to say thanks, but Bucky was already distracted - struck by the edge of the water and the bright city skyline staring back at them. It was a thing of awe, the jungle of skyscrapers and the office lights dotted like stars amongst them. Bucky's face, which usually seemed so haunted, was lit up with a warm golden glow and it reflected off the proud slash of his cheekbones, the straight arrow of his nose.

Clint tentatively reached out, then decided fuck it and put a hand on Bucky's shoulder. Bucky turned his head to look at him, his pale eyes clear as water.

"Welcome to Hong Kong," Clint told him, grinning.

~~~

Twenty minutes later, Clint and Bucky were still standing in front of the train station with a paper map in their hands. Clint frowned at it, turning it this way and that with one hand, trying to figure out how the hell to get to the safehouse again. He'd peeled open one of T'Challa's mangoes with his bare teeth and it dripped onto the floor in his other sticky hand.

"How can you not remember where the _safehouse_ is?" Bucky asked in exasperation.

Clint said defensively, "Hey, it's been a while and all the buildings have changed. Fucking gentrification."

From here, Clint could see a crowd of hipster restaurants and boutiques cramming the streets every which way and that. In the distance was the ocean and the safehouse was definitely next to the water. If he could find out where the tram line was, then he'd know where he was going. He remembered the side of a mountain? Or a pier or something? Aw, futz.

"Okay, I think it's this way," Clint said indecisively.

Everything in the district was shut already and Clint could feel the exhaustion settling into his bones. He was good at running on empty - it was pretty much his natural state of being - but he'd gone for over thirty hours with no sleep. (That nap on the boat hardly counted.) He wished he hadn't downed that second can of coffee on the plane now.

To distract himself from the tiredness, he babbled, "The first thing I'm gonna do is take a hot shower. Ugh, it's gonna be great. Hey, can you shower with that thing on? Or do you need to plastic baggie your arm before you jump in?"

Bucky looked at his arm, turning his hand over. "I could get the old one wet. I'm guessing this one will be fine."

"Maybe we should ring T'Challa. It would be really embarrassing if I had to tell Cap you electrocuted yourself in the shower," Clint told him.

Bucky responded, "It would be hilarious at least."

"Oh, definitely. But Cap would definitely murder me, or pull that disappointed face. I'm not sure which is worse," Clint told him.

The corner of Bucky's mouth twitched. "He would've laughed, back when we were in the army. He still scrappy?"

"Eh, not so much. Aside from aliens and supervillains, Tony's the only one who could ever really piss him off - hence the worst divorce of the century. At least Cap mostly got full custody," Clint explained.

“I don't think Stevie hates him," Bucky said.

"Steve’s still young," Clint said.

They continued walking in silence and the low rise skyscrapers gave way to a main road, lined with trees and a metal barrier to keep people from veering off into the ocean below. There was hardly a car in sight and Clint chucked his leftover mango into the bushes. He'd had enough of it.

Clint didn't even know why he'd brought up Tony, he didn't even really want to talk about the team falling apart. He was usually good at that - not talking about things. But fuck, he could still remember every hit he took at the German airport, Natasha's red hair whipping this way and that. He could still remember watching Rhodes drop like a coin in the distance.

He was so tired. He needed to sleep.

"Down here," Clint said, slipping through a small hole in the metal barrier to walk down a long flight of crumbling stairs hidden amongst foliage.

After fifteen minutes, the trees finally let up and opened to the black sea. A rickety pier that looked like an accident in waiting led right into the water and a little ways up from that was a small dark green house. It was totally removed from the bustle of the city and hardly felt like Hong Kong, or in fact, any place in the world.

Clint felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him at the sight of it.

He didn't get to sleep for another hour. He had to do perimeter checks, had to sweep the house, had to tear apart all the electrical devices to check for trackers, had to remember where the fuck he'd put all the clean bedsheets. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bucky conducting his own checks and tried not to be offended the man didn't trust his own judgment.

Clint finished his own checks faster than Bucky did, which wasn't totally a surprise. He sat on the couch and waited patiently for the man to return. He had to show him round the house, how the shower worked and which bedroom was his. He had to show him how to enable the security system and where all the weapons were kept.

He had to shut his eyes for just a second and wait for Bucky to walk back in.

A splash of light through his eyelids shocked Clint awake. He blinked blearily, throwing up an arm to shield himself from the sunlight streaming in through a window. His neck was sore and he'd slept badly on his shoulder, which was more than enough reason for him to never sleep on the couch again. He'd fallen asleep with his hearing aids in and he picked them out with a disgusted face, sighing with relief as air and silence rushed in. Yanking out his crappy flip phone, he instinctively checked the time. 4am. Fucking jetlag.

He stared up at the ceiling, knowing there was no way he was going to get back to sleep now. Once he was up, he was up. With a grunt, he rose to his feet and padded over to the kitchen to yank open the fridge. There was nothing inside. He honestly didn't know what he expected. At least there was stuff in the pantry cupboard-

Clint stared in horror at the bare cupboard and the dusty ring where the instant coffee used to be.

In a rage, he yanked his phone out and began furiously typing out a message to Natasha.

ME  
_This timeshare thing we have going only works if you restock all the coffee_

Clint stared at his phone, willing it to flash with a return message. Instead, the screen went black and stayed that way.

His stomach rumbled. If memory served correctly, there were wet markets back in town that opened around this time. Shopping on an empty stomach was never advisable, but it didn't seem like Bucky was up yet and it wasn't like there was anything else to do round the house with himself for company.

After pulling a wad of cash out of his bathroom safe (which was suspiciously light - _come on, Nat_ ), he shoved his keys into his pocket and beelined for the front door. He pressed his thumb against the fingerprint scanner tucked away behind some IKEA motel art and there was a low beep as the security system flicked off for the next five minutes.

Popping his hearing aids back in, Clint blinked at the jarring sound of a bird shrieking. Once he'd recovered, he also heard the slow shuffle of feet coming from upstairs. It seemed like Bucky couldn't sleep either.

As an afterthought, Clint scrawled a note and slapped it on the front door for him.

_GONE FISHING_

Maybe it would make the man laugh, the same addictive way he'd laughed when Clint had locked his new arm into place. Then again, it could just freak him out. Hastily, Clint scrawled in a postscript that he'd be back in an hour. He set off in the vague direction of the wet market, shutting the door behind him with a click.

As he left, he cast a look back at the house and the second floor window he knew belonged to the spare bedroom. He spotted the glint of Bucky's shoulder port and the slope of the man's pale back. Huh, the man slept in just his underwear. Clint was convinced he would have slept in body armour if he had any.

Bucky turned towards the window and looked directly at Clint. He jumped guiltily, embarrassed at being caught, then saluted lamely. The brunette raised an eyebrow and came closer to the window. Clint could now see the man was built like a Roman god, all hard marble lines and abs for days.

Bucky raised his fingers in a two fingered salute. In another world, Clint might even have wanted to fuck him.

Clint turned and legged it out of there as fast as he could.

~~~

Okay, so maybe Clint had bought more at the wet market than he should have. He'd never had to buy groceries for himself _and_ another person before - living with other people was something he didn't make a habit of, other than the whole fugitives-of-the-law-in-a-Wakandan-bunker thing. After sweeping through the market stalls like a tornado and buying as much as his rusty Cantonese would let him, he dipped into Nat's favourite tea house and bought a couple of boxes of take out. He'd be damned if he was cooking this early in the morning.

Clint finally reached the safehouse and deactivated the security system. It powered down with a whoosh and he unlocked the front door, slipping in. As he shut the door behind him, one of the bags snapped and mangoes went clattering across the floor, leaving a streak of juice in its wake.

"Aw, mangoes," Clint muttered, bending down to pick up the bruised fruit.

"Barton?" a voice called out.

Bucky appeared at the end of the hallway (fully dressed, Clint noted). The man seemed tense and he relaxed marginally at the sight of Clint, slipping his hand back into his back pocket. Clint would be lying if he said he hadn't spotted the glint of metal, the suggestion of a knife tucked between his fingers. He didn't want to think about it too hard.

"Wanna help?" Clint asked, gesturing to his runaway fruit.

Bucky paused, then swiped some of the plastic bags from Clint and presumably took the bulk of the groceries to the kitchen. Clint pottered about collecting the fruit and dropped it with disappointment on the kitchen table.

Clint commented, "You were up pretty early today."

"Couldn't sleep," Bucky responded, pulling out an eggplant.

"Bad dream?" Clint asked.

Bucky changed the subject. "You should eat that take out, it's getting cold."

"Oh hell yes - barbecued pork, get in me. So, what have you been up to today?" Clint asked.

"Why are there identity documents for another Avenger in my room?" Bucky asked.

"How did you break into Nat's safe - wait, actually, of course you did. Nat lets me share all her safe houses, but I'm not sure where she is right now. Where'd she stash her stuff?"

Bucky told him, "Underneath the bookshelf."

Clint flipped open the styrofoam box and scooped rice into his mouth. "Breaking into people's safes is anti-social behaviour. You better check your attitude or you'll be out on the street, missy."

"How will I ever survive?" Bucky deadpanned.

Clint gestured with a plastic spoon. "You've got a half decent face. You could turn tricks."

Bucky threw a look his way, his eyes bright as summer. "You hitting on me?"

Against his own will, Clint's gaze roved over the curve of his ass in those jeans, the stretch of fabric across Bucky's broad shoulders. The slope of his proud nose, his cupid bow lips.

"Uh," Clint said, then his brain stopped.

Bucky waited, then raised an eyebrow. Clint didn't know what to do now and picked up a slice of deep red pork, popping it into his mouth to avoid the super soldier's searching stare. Clint hadn't even meant to flirt with the man and now here he was, stuck in a kitchen that suddenly felt very small with Bucky's huge biceps taking up all the available breathing space.

"Thanks, I think," Bucky said finally.

"Yes," Clint said, because he had forgotten how conversations worked.

Bucky didn't comment on the strange turn the conversation had taken. Clint stuck a foot out and pulled out the other chair for him, gesturing at the other takeaway box.

"Come on, Barnes. Sit down and eat. All that spinach is still gonna be there in half an hour," Clint told him.

Reluctantly, Bucky shut the fridge door and took the seat next to Clint. He carefully opened the box and looked at the chopsticks warily, before digging in with the plastic spoon. The man looked exhausted, Clint noted.

"When was the last time you slept?" Clint asked.

"Cryo," Bucky responded, manoeuvring pork onto his spoon.

Clint gaped at him. "Cryo? That was more than two days ago. You should be dead."

"Serum," Bucky stated, as though that answered everything. To be fair, it really did.

"You should try and get some sleep after this. I'll put all the shit away," Clint offered.

Bucky looked pointedly at his food. "I can't."

Clint remembered his own bout with insomnia after he'd been brainwashed by Loki, the nights he spent crawling inside his own skin, the dreams he was scared were spun together by a monster. The dreams he was even more scared that were his own.

"You should go lie in bed at least. I spent a long ass time digging up those new bedsheets for you, I'll be damned if I see them go to waste," Clint told him.

"What are you going to do?" Bucky asked.

Secure the perimeter again, double check their internet connection hadn't been compromised, scope out the district for potential security issues and generally try to keep Bucky alive.

Clint responded instead, "Dunno. Watch Dog Cops, I guess."

Bucky threw a disbelieving look in his direction and Clint shrugged.

"What? It's not like there's much to do," Clint told him defensively.

Clint finished his food and leaned back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He watched Bucky's fingers shift around his spoon, knuckles bending and unbending. His eyes flicked up to Bucky's face, taking in the dark shadows underneath his eyes.

"You know, I have Steve's number. I need to call him to let him know we're safe, but I can pass the phone to you if you want," Clint ventured.

Sure, the phone was only meant to be used for serious things - like kidnappings, end of the world gigs and pending imprisonment. Clint thought that making sure Bucky didn't run himself into the ground was probably a great shout too.

Bucky hesitated. "Yeah, if you don't mind."

Clint nodded and shoved the remnants of his takeaway box into the bin under the sink, groping for the phone burning a hole in his back pocket. "I'll hand it over to you when I'm done."

"Sure."

"I expect you to be in bed, in pyjamas though."

"You're not my mom."

"We need feminine energy on this honeymoon getaway and I'm putting money down that I look better in a dress than you."

Bucky snorted, shaking his head. Since Clint had mentioned ringing Steve for him, it was as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Curiously emboldened, Clint put a hand on Bucky's shoulder right over the metal port. Unlike the boat, the man didn't pull away or shrink into himself and turned his quartz eyes on Clint. 

"Seriously, though. Go sleep," Clint told him, his voice quieter than he thought it would be.

After a moment, Bucky hesitantly raised his hand and placed it over Clint's.

~~~

Bucky woke the next morning to the sound of Clint's voice floating through the house like sunlight. His back was stiff and he realised with a jolt that he'd fallen asleep fully dressed on the couch. As his mind fought to catch up with the world around him, he heard the mellow tones of a second voice carry towards him and every muscle in his body went rigid.

"-and you haven't talked to Cap about this?" Clint asked, his voice a little hoarse.

"He's off doing his saving the world bit, fighting international terrorism. This is just a pet project," she told him.

"If this is your idea of a pet project, you really need to take up some hobbies."

Bucky shifted, throwing a glance over the side of the couch into the kitchen. A pair of jade eyes met his patiently, as though they'd been expecting him. The red haired woman from the safe documents, the one who'd let him and Steve go at the airport, sat there. He didn't break eye contact with her, daring her to look away first.

She did and addressed Clint, "He’s awake."

Clint choked on his coffee.

“How’re you doing, James?” Natasha called out to him. One of her eyebrows quirked upwards, a tiny challenge.

Bucky rose to his feet in one fluid movement, fully awake now. He took a seat at the table closest to Clint, appraising her. He remembered flashes of her in a colder country when she was younger, the burning desire to read her like a book if she'd let him and stolen touches in the dead of night.

“Good,” he responded cautiously. “Natalia?”

Clint’s head whipped over to Bucky. He corrected him, “Natasha.”

She waved him off and said, “Natalia to James. So I take it your memories are coming back?”

He used to listen to her heartbeat as she skated her hands across his metal arm in wonder, tracing the red star that hung over them.

“Some of them,” he told her.

“You two know each other?” Clint asked in confusion.

“He trained me,” she explained, leaving out most of the story. Bucky opened his mouth to challenge that, but shut it at a sharp glance from her. Bucky had a feeling she had always been this way.

“In the...Red Room?” Clint ventured.

The words were a fingerprint on Bucky's heart. Ballet? The fringes of the memory slipped through his fingers like bath water.

“Yes,” she clarified, because Bucky couldn't.

"What the fuck," Clint mumbled in disbelief, rubbing his temples.

“I can't remember everything,” Bucky warned her.

“I know you can't. But I'm sure you remember this,” she said.

She slid a thick red book his way.

In the next second, Bucky lunged for Natasha and Clint reached for the tranquiliser in his back pocket. Natasha grabbed his fist and let the force carry her backwards in the chair, rolling backwards to toss him over and into the cabinets. Bucky managed to grab the book from the table and retreated into a corner, hands poised to tear the thing in half.

“ _Why do you have this_?” he demanded in Russian, brandishing it like a weapon.

Clint started, “Hey, Barnes, calm down-”

“It's the last remaining copy. I burned the rest of them,” Natasha told him calmly.

" _Why did you bring it here?_ ” Bucky said.

“It's yours to do whatever you want with it. But before you destroy it, just know that there might be something in there that could exonerate you,” she said.

Clint knew that Natasha had him and predictably, Bucky folded as the fight drained out of him. Natasha stood up, righting the chair and sinking back down as though Bucky hadn't just tossed her out of it.

Bucky looked at Clint. The words were thick in his mouth, but he found his English again. “You trust her?”

Natasha was manipulative, unreadable and prone to disappearing at a moment’s notice. Without a shred of doubt, Clint explained, “As much as you do Steve.”

After a few seconds of hesitation, Bucky took the seat opposite Natasha again. He threw a look Clint’s way, glancing down at the empty chair beside him and Clint awkwardly took it - avoiding Natasha’s searching look.

“I know you didn't come all this way just to give me a book. What do you really want?” Bucky asked, his gaze level.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “I want you to help me find the Red Room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm shocked at how many people left kudos/commented on the first chapter! Was not expecting that level of response, thank you so much. :) 
> 
> Clint's line about Dog Cops - "Whatever you need Dog Cops to be, in your heart, they will be that for you" - is something Matt Fraction actually said in an AMA. I loved it so much and thought it was absolutely something Clint would say, so I had to throw it in.
> 
> I know this chapter could have been edited wayyy down because it's very dialogue heavy and most of it doesn't progress the plot at all. I'm absolutely being 150% indulgent because I love making Clint/Bucky banter, but a lot more shit is gonna go down in the next one if you're hungry for story. 
> 
> As always, if you've got any questions, want to shout at me or have a little chat, either leave a comment or skip on over to my tumblr: http://heming-yay.tumblr.com xxx


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky confronts Natasha, Bucky freaks out, Clint throws a wrench in the spanner. As he always does.

Once Clint had settled to sleep, Bucky rose and followed the sounds of Natasha in the lounge. He didn't doubt for a second that she was making the noise for his benefit, to let him know she was downstairs and ready to talk whenever he was.

Bucky found Natasha watching a cooking channel and she gestured at the open armchair opposite her. He took it, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees as he appraised her.

“If Stevie were here, he'd say that this was a bad idea,” Bucky told her in Russian.

“You're your own person, James. You get to make your own decisions now,” she responded, swapping to Russian as well.

He flicked his gaze over to the television screen, where War Machine zoomed over Manhattan. “Even all the wrong ones.”

She shrugged. “That's the price we paid for freedom.”

Bucky diverted the subject suddenly. “You didn't tell Clint the truth about us. We were...lovers once.”

“What was the point in bringing it up? We left that behind ages ago,” she replied.

Bucky was getting a migraine - an apartment on the second floor, the flume of her breath in January cold. “Why are you helping me?”

She turned off the television, turning to face him. “Because I loved you.”

Bucky waited, unconvinced.

Then she continued: “And I've been tracking the Red Room for the past ten years, taking out or taking in all their operatives. I'm going to destroy it.”

That, Bucky could believe. He told her, “I don't know the route to the Red Room, it's all part of my programming. I'd have to go under again. But you knew that already or you wouldn't have brought the book.”

She inclined her head. Bucky clenched his hand, the joints creaking.

She rose to her feet and swapped to English, “Think about it. At the very least, T’Challa could use more research to help you get better."

Of course she knew T’Challa was working on a cure.

"I can't go back to whatever I used to be," Bucky told her in English too, his honesty tearing at him.

"Neither can I. But somehow, we've managed to hang onto our humanity," she told him.

 **would've liked to know what you were like before** _pressing her fingers to his lips, to eyelids, to chest, hair spilling like red ribbons across the bed_

She stretched and walked over to the staircase. "I'll be gone in a couple of hours, but Clint has my phone number. If you change your mind, drop me a line."

Bucky wouldn't. But as she disappeared up the stairs and he basked in the silence, he realised with a jolt that for the first time he had options.

~~~

So, this looked bad.

Clint hit the deck as a very shiny, very sharp vibranium knife slammed into the rosewood cabinet behind him, buried nearly all the way to the hilt. The man before him was completely unrecognisable, a dark shadow against the dawn light, and he moved like a titan.

His metal shoulder port glinted as he lunged towards Clint with stagnant pools of water for eyes. It would only take one hit for the man to cave his skull in and splatter his brains like a Pollock painting across the wall.

Clint had to get to the tranquilisers from T'Challa, but they were in the next room. He wasn't going to make it in time. He was going to die here a criminal, in a shack, without ever having seen the Dog Cops finale.

It had all started at three in the morning, when Clint had been defeated by jet lag. Natasha was long gone, she'd crept out when he wasn't looking and he'd crawled back into his own room like a zombie. For hours, Clint had alternated between tossing in his bed and staring at the ceiling so hard his vision blurred. He knew the best way to beat the jet lag was to just force himself to sleep according to his new time zone, but his head was spinning with so many things.

Clint got up.

He went downstairs. He sat on the couch. He sat at the kitchen table. He sat on the floor. He gave up and tottered over to the fridge, yanking it open even though he wasn't hungry.

"The hell…?" he mumbled, eyeing Bucky's handiwork.

The man was evidently a neat freak. He'd organised the whole fridge by types of produce and colour coordinated it. In the vegetable bins at the bottom, the cucumbers and bundles of spinach cozied up to the tomatoes and carrots. On the fridge door shelf, varying shades of blue cartons (milk, orange juice, whatever the hell was in that last one) were arranged in a pleasing ombre. Every egg was precisely placed in a holder, meticulously turned so that the expiry date stamp faced outwards.

Something in the back of his brain psycho analysed the situation. Something something life in order. Something something control. Clint couldn't think about it too hard.

In defiance, Clint picked up a single tomato and placed it on the butter and cheese shelf. Then he grabbed the unopened carton of orange juice, yanked the tab and drank it straight out of the box.

He took it with him back to the couch and swilled it round, curling up on the left corner. He turned on the television and sank into the chair, taking another deep gulp of orange juice.

A reporter droned on, " _And earlier today, a press conference with Anthony Stark regarding the formation of the New Avengers has made it clear that the priority of the UN initiative is to tackle terrigenesis terrorism. Following the detonation of a terrigen bomb in a Texan shopping mall, which claimed the lives of twenty three people and transformed a further twelve to inhumans, this is the fourth attack of its kind in the past two months-"_

Footage of Tony sitting behind a cold white desk in a room full of reporters appeared as the voiceover continued. He'd lost the glasses, traded the snazzy ties for a black one and there wasn't a trace of personality on him. The video was then split by security footage of the bombing itself, starting off with a mundane mall scene of people milling about, then an unexpected explosion of black dust that swallowed everything in its wake.

Clint drank again, trying to get the bitter taste out of his mouth. Here he was, sitting on a couch in his boxer briefs. There Tony was, tackling international terrorism.

The reporter asked, turning to her co-anchor. " _John, how much do you think Stark can realistically do, given that only a fraction of his team are in fact Inhuman?"_

" _Well Tina, the New Avengers are drastically outmanned. Despite all of Stark's fancy tech, War Machine and Iron Man are ultimately still human and another act of terror genesis could potentially wipe them out-"_

Clint smashed the button on his remote. The television froze for a second, then buzzed as it changed to a trashy food documentary. A man with an icing bag squeezed out perfectly shaped icing flowers, twisting his wrist this way and that to decorate his cupcakes. Clint rolled his eyes and drank more orange juice. It would do.

Upstairs, there was a low bang. Clint looked up at the ceiling, cocking his head. Bucky was clearly awake and while Clint _could_ do the polite thing and invite him down to watch television, he wanted to be by himself. The two of them had spent so much time together that it was beginning to grate on his nerves - Clint needed his own space. He took another sip.

Twenty minutes and more cupcake icing passed, then there was another bang upstairs. And another. And another.

Unable to ignore it anymore and with an uneasy feeling in his stomach, Clint put the orange juice down. He jumped off the couch, every hair on the back of his neck reared, and tottered up the steep staircase to Bucky's room.

He knocked once. "Hey, man? You okay in there?"

There was silence on the other end.

"I'm coming in," Clint said, because he had a death wish.

He pushed open the door and the first thing he noticed was the complete state of the room. It was a huge difference from the carefully laid out fridge: clothes lay haphazardly over furniture, bedsheets drooled onto the floor and a folding desk was tumbled onto its side. In the centre of it all balanced Bucky on uneasy feet, who stared at Clint like a stranger. It took less than a second for Clint to realise he didn't know this Bucky either.

"Well, fuck," Clint said aptly.

So yeah, this looked bad.

Clint hit the deck as a very shiny, very sharp vibranium knife slammed into the rosewood cabinet behind him, buried nearly all the way to the hilt.

Scrambling to his feet, Clint made a wild dash for his bedroom. Bucky was on him in a second, smashing him into the wall of the hallway and rattling the cheap IKEA art, and Clint drove his knee up and into a wall of muscle. It did nothing to hurt the man, but he did take a shaky step back and then Clint was fighting for his life. He was faster than Bucky and could swerve like a football player, but it wasn't long before his arms ached from blocking superhuman hits. Each one felt like he was being smashed with a marble brick. If Clint could just get to the tranquilisers in his bag-

Finally, Clint landed a hit right to Bucky's face that left the man reeling. He took that moment to run into his bedroom, foregoing the bow and arrow by the doorframe, and kicked the door shut. Bucky put a hand right through the wood - aw, door - and Clint scrambled for the box of tranquilisers. He grabbed one and wielded it in his hand like a knife, prepared to put him under.

Bucky had frozen in the doorway, staring at his hand and the hole he’d made in the door. The wood had gored his knuckles open, blood dripping onto the wooden flooring. Delicately, cautiously, he pulled it out and stared at his hand.

"Barnes? You all there?" Clint ventured, syringe still poised to strike.

Bucky's head turned sluggishly to look at him. Clint saw the despair skimming the surface of his irises, then they cleared like water.

"I don't think so," Bucky admitted quietly.

Clint sighed in relief and dropped the syringe.

~~~  


When Clint told Bucky to go downstairs and sit on the couch, the man floated out of his bedroom like a phantom. Clint packed away his tranquilisers in their box, slipping one into his back pocket just in case, and moved it to a new location underneath his dresser.

Clint followed Bucky and found the man staring at his hands with an unreadable expression on his face. Bucky didn't even look up when Clint drew closer and swept past him into the kitchen, grabbing the first aid kit from the top of the fridge. He also grabbed the whiskey and a tumbler from the cupboard, just for good measure.

He landed heavily on the edge of the couch, leaving an ocean's worth of space between them. The man still hadn't said a word. Clint held out the first aid kit and when Bucky didn't register it, Clint clicked his tongue.

"Hey. This is your olive branch. Take it," Clint told him.

Bucky looked up and fixed his eyes on the plastic box. He took it and levelled Clint with an exhausted look. "You okay?"

Clint's entire body was going to feel like a massive bruise tomorrow, but Bucky didn't need to know that. "I just need a drink. Want one?"

"Not now," Bucky told him. His hands looked so large and clumsy with the little first aid box clutched between them.

"Yeah, probably for the best. I'll drink for the both of us," Clint said, pouring himself an inch of whiskey.

He tossed it back and pulled a face as it scorched all the way down. Clint told Bucky, "We need to get some beer."

"Sure," Bucky responded, rising to his feet.

Clint's body tensed instinctively, coiled to fight in case Bucky went off the deep end. He didn't doubt for a second that Bucky noticed, but the man didn't address it and instead headed off to the kitchen. (Where the knives were, Clint's mind filled in unhelpfully.) Clint kept a watchful eye on him, but all Bucky did was use the sink to wash his hands.

He poured himself another drink. Bucky returned to the couch and gently tore open an antiseptic wipe, using it to wipe down a pair of tweezers. He then pulled a tissue out of the box and laid it out on their sorry excuse for a coffee table. After that, he began the arduous task of teasing the splinters out of his hand, which was at least thankfully something that would keep him busy.

"I'm sorry," Bucky told Clint, unable to meet his eyes.

Clint hummed. "That happen often?"

"No. But sometimes I get stressed or think too much about the past, I wake up and forget things," Bucky explained, pulling the first bloody splinter out.

"That why you didn't want to sleep?" Clint asked pointedly.

Bucky removed the second splinter, laying it out on the tissue beside the first. "Didn't know how it was gonna be after waking up from cryo."

Clint filed that away for future reference. If they were going to be moving from safe house to safe house, he'd need to be on guard if Bucky was getting testy.

"You should keep that on you," Bucky said.

Clint frowned at him. "The whiskey?"

"The tranq in your back pocket," Bucky told him.

Clint panicked. "Oh, that old thing? I've got a drug problem."

Bucky pulled out the last splinter. Three splinters in total.

Bucky said, "I'd feel safer if you had it with you."

Clint didn't want to point out that having the tranquiliser kept _Clint_ safe from _Bucky_ , not the other way round.

He watched as the man methodically wiped his hand down finger by finger, knuckle by knuckle with an antiseptic wipe. Clint remembered the fridge and the perfectly colour co-ordinated vegetables, the deliberately positioned eggs.

Clint couldn't be here anymore. It was making him think of Loki tearing through his mind like a bandit and the slice of a mob bullet through his head, the smell of antiseptic and the suction of silence. He put a hand to his hearing aids, making sure they were still there.

"I'm going back upstairs," Clint told him abruptly.

Bucky looked up at him. He seemed like he was going to say something, then nodded and stared down at his bandages.

Clint went back into his room. He brushed up the stray wood chips. He put them in the bin. He hung his bag on the back of the mangled door. He zipped it shut.

Then he pulled the phone out and typed:

ME  
_Why did you ask me to do this_

Clint stared at the phone. It flashed.

STEVE  
_Because I can't be objective when it comes to Bucky_

Clint snapped it shut and crawled back into his bed, trying not to think of Bucky's white teeth in the old army reels, the glimmer of a sense of humour when viewed with the right light. The phone vibrated again, presumably with another text, and Clint took out his hearing aids. He shut his eyes and went to sleep.

~~~

The next morning, Clint woke to the buzz of his phone on the mattress.

Without his hearing aids in, he couldn't hear its shrill ringing but he'd set it to vibrate as ferociously as possible. He popped in his BTEs, switching them on and hearing the world of sound pop in. Rubbing a hand over his face, he answered the call. 

"It's too early for this," Clint began.

"You're telling me, I thought you would've at least made it to one month. Your adopted assassin just ran away to the circus," a voice of crushed velvet told him.

Clint sat up a little straighter in bed, wide awake at once. "Nat?"

She repeated, "Did you just hear what I said?"

Clint's brain rolled around in his skull as he fought to process her words. Then he blurted, "Barnes is gone?"

He threw off his blankets, nearly tripping as they tangled around his feet. Without knocking, he yanked Bucky's door open and every trace of him had been scrubbed out of existence - save a slight wrinkle in the corner of the made-up guest bed. He rushed down the stairs expecting to see the man slumped over like a statue on the couch, staring down at his knees in quiet torture, or rearranging the contents of the fridge with a blank look on his face. But Bucky was nowhere to be seen, not even a wisp of him.

"Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Cap's gonna kill me," Clint cursed, wheeling around.

"He left five minutes ago, my cameras caught him heading in the direction of town. You can still catch him," Natasha told him.

"Cameras? You installed cameras in _our_ safehouse without telling me?" Clint asked.

"Are you telling me you didn't set up cameras in our Berlin flat?" Natasha asked point-blank.

"...yes?"

"I don't know why you bother lying."

Clint didn't even bother getting dressed, he just slipped on his trainers, grabbed a tranq, his bow and quiver, disabled the security system and ran out of the house. Taking the stairs up the hill two at a time, he could see the lights of a bus flicker to life on the main road above before disappearing round the bend. He set off at a run, eyes whipping around for a trace of Bucky's dark head and quiet stride.

"Wait, what did he look like? Am I walking into a Winter Soldier situation here?'' Clint asked, thinking of the way Bucky's hand had crunched through his door like a biscuit.

"He didn't seem unstable," Natasha told him.

"So he's not a killing machine at the moment, he's just being a fucking idiot," Clint grumbled.

"That sounds about right."

Honestly, he probably should have seen this coming. Bucky had worn his guilt like a second skin yesterday and had a history of dropping off the face of the planet when he was overwhelmed. Even with the whole team's help, Cap had still taken the better part of a year to track the man down after SHIELD's fallout. Clint was going to have to put the man on a leash or something when he found him. If he found him.

"His metal arm has always been slower than his real one, but it hits harder. Steer away from close combat if possible, but don't let the man within twenty feet of a gun. I've got to go," she told him.

"Nat? Wait, Nat-"

There was a click as she hung up and Clint groaned in frustration, chucking the phone into his quiver. He'd call her back later, but he knew in his heart of hearts that she probably wouldn't pick up again.

In the distance, Clint saw the spire of a bus stop and a tall man standing hunched beside it. He would know Bucky's self-deprecating slouch anywhere. Clint picked up speed and he saw Bucky tense, shouldering his bag as though he were getting ready to run.

Clint said, "You know if you didn't like Hong Kong, you could have just said so."

Bucky didn't respond.

"Come back to the house," Clint told him. "It's too early for this shit."

"I can't," Bucky told him.

"Why the hell not?'' Clint asked in exasperation.

Bucky said, "I don't trust myself around other people right now."

"Right, and heading by yourself into downtown Hong Kong - a city of six million people - is exactly the answer," Clint said dryly.

Bucky muttered something darkly, but Clint's ears couldn't catch it. It didn't matter, he didn't have time for Bucky's sassy mouth.

"You know if you get on the bus when it comes, I'm getting right on it with you. And I'm a dude in underwear running around with a bow and arrow, so we're going to attract all sorts of attention," Clint told him.

Bucky straightened and drew himself to his full height, towering over Clint. "I could stop you."

Alarm bells went off in the back of Clint's head. The tranq burned a hole into his skin through the waistband of his boxers. "Yeah, I'd like to see you try. I've fought aliens before, you know."

Bucky's voice dropped to an almost unintelligible volume. Clint had to focus really hard on his mouth to get the gist of what he was saying.

"I can't hurt anyone else. I should be by my shelf," Bucky told him, mumbling.

My shelf? Myself, Clint's mind corrected belatedly. The lipreading thing wasn't an exact science.

"You're not going to do that," Clint told him impatiently.

"Yeah? You see that hole I put in your door?"

Clint told him, "I'm not Steve or the rest of the gang. I don't have any hang ups about killing you if I have to."

Bucky blinked in surprise.

Clint said, "You don't want to hurt anyone? Stick around then kid, I'll put an arrow in you before you get the chance."

The bus arrived and stopped before them. The doors slid open, Clint and Bucky were still staring one another down.

"Come back home with me," Clint told him.

The bus rolled away. Bucky did.

~~~

Bucky asked for Clint's phone when they got back and slipped upstairs with it clutched in his hand like a rosary. Clint gave him a good ten minutes before he stole after him, listening through Bucky's slightly ajar door.

The man's voice was too soft, Clint's hearing aids couldn't pick up much. But he could hear the quiet notes of frustration, his despair.

Then Bucky raised his voice, just for a moment: "You're not listening, I- I'm not in control. I might not _ever_ be in control."

Clint left the house, walking out onto the pier to take slow, deep breaths. He thought he could feel the ice in his veins, chilling his lungs till each exhale was a puff of mist in the humidity - the smallest of hypocrisies.

~~~

Bucky avoided Clint the next day. In a house that had only four rooms, it was something of an accomplishment really. Clint let him have his little freak out, politely ignoring him back as Bucky swept into the kitchen to make food. On the second day, he'd had enough.

Clint walked into the living room, following the sound of the television. Bucky was watching the news - unsurprisingly - his eyes glued to news commentary of one of Tony Stark's recent press conferences.

"You know, there are more fun things to watch. Pornography in this century is fucked up, you should get into it," Clint told him.

Bucky blanched, unsure of how to respond. Clint sighed and sat next to him on the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. He grabbed the remote and turned off the television.

"Don't pussyfoot around me. I hate that shit," Clint said. "And stop avoiding me, it's getting old. You fucked up, I told you I'd kill you - I'd say we're even now."

"Sure," Bucky responded, if only to appease Clint.

"And you need to tell me if you know anything's going to set you off, so we can be prepared. Now we know stressing you out is a big no no, I can be on guard if it seems like things are going south. Anything else?" Clint asked.

Bucky shifted. "The sound of electricity. Reminds me of when they used to wipe my memory."

Clint wasn't going to touch that with a twenty foot pole. Blue lights and the touch of frost. "Okay. Stress and electricity. I can handle that. And I'll keep the tranquiliser on me at all times like you asked."

"Use the EMP arrow if you have more. And go for my legs, they're slow," Bucky told him. Clint mentally added that to the growing stockpile of Winter Soldier weaknesses, alongside Natasha's helpful tips. He really needed to drag as many as he could out of her.

"Sure. I'm going to keep my weak points to myself, if you don't mind," Clint said. "Need all the edge I can get over a super soldier with a metal arm."

Bucky nodded. "Agreed. Fight dirty."

Clint flashed his teeth at him. "I always do."

It was weird to have Bucky lay out all the different ways that Clint could take him down, but it ironically seemed to relax him. The haggard lines of Bucky's face had softened, his eyes were clear and his body had melted into the couch. As he watched, Bucky raised a hand and ran it through his sloppily cut hair.

"Hey, I never fixed your hair," Clint remembered.

Bucky paused self-consciously. "I don't mind it."

"You look like you lost a battle with a lawnmower. I'm not taking you out in public looking like that," Clint told him.

Bucky glanced at him. "Out? You sure that's a good idea?"

"Hell no. But once you feel up to it, we've gotta get you into the sunlight. You're collecting mould," Clint told him.

With a little reluctance, Bucky let Clint pull him to his feet. Clint shepherded him into the kitchen and handed him a stack of newspapers. Without any prodding, he began laying them out and Clint dragged over one of the plastic chairs.

Clint ran a hand through Bucky's hair experimentally, assessing the damage. Bucky tensed at first, then melted into the touch. It was as though he had forgotten the sensation of human contact. Clint wondered when the last time somebody touched him like this was and did it a third time for no reason at all, watching as Bucky's eyes slid shut. With a small breath, Clint began to snip away at Bucky's jagged ends.

"You do this often?" Bucky asked in a low murmur.

Clint hummed. "My brother and I used to cut each other's hair. I'm not working in a salon any time soon, but it'll do."

Bucky said, "You and your brother close?"

Barney was back in New York, running the tenement building in Clint's stead. He'd been the one to punch the sense back into Clint when he'd curled around a bottle after going deaf and the one to send his ass to therapy after Loki wore him like sheepskin.

"Yeah, you could say that. He's a pain in the ass though," Clint complained.

Bucky huffed in amusement. "Siblings always are. I've had to clean up too many of Stevie's messes."

"Yeah? How'd that work out for you?" Clint asked.

Bucky said, "Well, I've got one arm."

Clint had to set down the scissors because he was laughing so hard. A small, tentative smile stretched across Bucky's lips as he watched Clint fold over with peals of laughter.

Wiping away tears, Clint said, "That was fucking hilarious."

"Stevie would crucify himself if he ever knew," Bucky admitted.

"Absolutely," Clint told him. "He doesn't have much of a sense of humour nowadays."

"I feel like I should be there with him. He's hardly holding it together," Bucky said, frustration leaking into his voice for the very first time.

Clint didn't pull his punches. "Maybe, but Steve doesn't think straight when it comes to you. And honestly, I don't think you're ready to play with the big leagues yet. We only just popped you out of the freezer."

"I might not ever be ready."

Clint ran his hand through Bucky's hair, resting his thumb over his jaw, more for his own support than Bucky's. "Speaking as someone who's gone through the whole brainwashing shtick before, you're never going to feel like you are."

He could feel Bucky's pulse under his thumb, a slow and steady thump that grounded him. He felt Bucky swallow.

"I didn't know that about you. Steve never said," Bucky said.

"It's not something I go around advertising. Screwed me up nearly as much as losing my hearing did. It only took a few hundred hours with a shrink and early retirement to get over it," Clint responded.

"I'm sorry," Bucky told him and Clint could tell he meant it.

Clint was done with Bucky's hair and wiped off the stray strands that had collected on his shoulders. "Yeah, I'm sorry too man. It fucking blows."

He put the scissors down and faced Bucky, adjusting his hair experimentally. Clint had done his best and the man finally looked presentable, less like an escaped convict. His fingers skittered over Bucky's forehead as he wiped fallout away and he tried very hard not to get sucked into his blue gaze.

Clint didn't want to think about the possibility of putting an arrow through him then, not when every movement Bucky made was calculated gentleness, every word soft and unassuming for Clint's benefit. Clint rose and stretched his back, gesturing for Bucky to go check himself out in the dusty mirror hanging on the kitchen wall.

"It's a little short," Clint warned.

Bucky rose, scattering hair as he stood, and Clint began to fold up the newspaper on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched with some small degree of nervousness as Bucky ran a hand through his new do and examined it this way and that.

"Haven't looked this pretty since the 40s," Bucky told him with a careful smile.

"Yeah, yeah, we've all seen the photographs," Clint said.

He crumpled up the paper and threw it in the bin, clapping his hands free of stray hair. Bucky lingered in the kitchen, helping him put the chair in its right place.

"Hey, did you ever get whoever brainwashed you?" Bucky asked him.

"Loki? Oh, yeah. He's rotting in an alien prison somewhere," Clint told him.

An easy grin spread across Bucky's face like a sunrise, unselfish and brimming with empathy. This, Clint thought dazedly. This is what he must have been like before.

"Good," Bucky said, and that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint, you gotta restrain yourself honey. The next chapter might take a little longer than usual because hot damn, I've rewritten it like five times and I'm still unhappy with it. To porn or not to porn, that is the question.
> 
> As always, shoot me an ask over at heming-yay.tumblr.com if you've got any questions, rants or otherwise anything else to freak out about. Lots of love y'all, thanks for commenting and kudos-ing xxx


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